Paintballs of steel

By: CADE GRUNST

Posted: 1/25/08

There are but a few moments in my life when I have felt absolute utter extreme abject terror. This was one of them.

At the tender age of about 12, I was introduced to paintball. Thanks to my neighbor and hetero-lifemate Josh, I had a connection with Hayward's "Operation Paintball" so tenuous that I'm actually two steps closer to Kevin Bacon than the arena. Specifically, Josh's sister's boyfriend's ex-girlfriend married the owner, who decided to give us free rentals and paint for life.

My first trip paintballing was ludicrous. Now, I understand many people have never had the unique joy of shooting their friends, so I'll try to explain the sport. I came naively expecting teams armed with giant Nerf-esque rifles lobbing paint-soaked koosh balls. I left covered in literally dozens of welts, looking for all the world like a polka-dotted Muppet caricature of a childhood leprosy victim.

Paintball is fast. Paintball is vicious. Paintball is horrifying to a four-eyed sixth-grader being stared down by grown men in Stormtrooper masks wielding contusion-causing cannons of carnage. When I took my first hit I thought I'd died; my shirt was a red-soaked mess, with blood seeping from a most righteous bruise on my chest. Next thing I knew some dude was getting thrown off the field for shooting hot (firing with his gun's pressure too high). I was off to an excellent start.

Needless to say, I was none too thrilled to be tossed into the next round. When the referee blew his whistle, I huddled bloody and scared behind cover until the match ended. I stuck to the same battle plan in the next skirmish, and the next. Then the unexpected happened.

Nineteen seconds in, the ref stomped his way over to my chillin' spot. "You're out!" He hollered.

I was confused. "What? I haven't been hit! No one even knows I'm here!" I pointed to my bloodstain. "I don't wanna get shot again, dude."

The ref was unimpressed. "You're out until you start playing seriously, kid. You're just wasting everybody's time right now."

The man had a point, and I had nothing to lose. Adrenaline began to saturate my system as I planned my next round's attack. I was 12 years old and brilliant, a master strategist. Josh and I were planning pincer movements, shoot-n-scoots, flanking maneuvers. Our team regrouped before the firefight. We tensed. The whistle blew.

"CHAAAAARGE!" We were 12-year-olds with guns and a contact high. All premeditated plans were blasted out of our heads by an all-consuming desire to hit at least one single solitary opponent as we barreled forward with no thoughts of cover or accuracy.

I was, of course, tagged immediately. Raising my arms, I belted out the customary "I'm out!" and headed towards the waiting room. The ref stopped me.

He gave me a quick glance, eyes flickering purposefully past the glob of paint stuck to my leg. "You're clean! Go back!"

I was baffled, but so hopped up I couldn't care less. I pounced right back into the fray, firing wildly. A hit! One man from the other team stood and left the field. His teammate saw us, took aim and fired, scoring a perfect bulls-eye on Josh's facemask. The ref wiped it off. "You're clean," he repeated, and back we went.

As any rocket scientist could gather, we won the match. Josh and I were the last two contenders standing, absolutely dripping with paint and grinning like the idiots we were. That, loyal reader, is what it feels like to be a champion.

Our heinous cheating was only fated to last one round, and to no one's surprise we fared poorly the rest of the night. Despite being dramatically outclassed, however, we gave it our all. Once past the initial fear barrier we were unshakable, and when we finally returned home we were at least moral victors, covered as we were in a mixture of bruises, paint and pride.

CADE GRUNST misses being coated in a thick layer of welts and beatings. Volunteer to donate some of your own by contacting cade@ucdavis.edu.